Henry’s eyes grew wider with everything Marguerite had to tell him. It seemed to him that what she had experienced had been an awful ordeal, something that would never be forgotten, and yet he had never heard about it before in his life. He wondered if it was like Thanksgiving, where when you were little they only told you the happy parts and left out all the death and famine that had actually happened until you were older. It seemed strange to do plays about the Pilgrims and Native Americans with paper feathers once you learned what really had happened. Though he supposed that was like his fairytales. One didn’t look at Little Red Riding Hood the same after finding out she was also the big bad wolf and the horrific twist that would become her life.
“They just killed anyone? Was there a trial?” he asked, confused by the difference in justice system. They’d only just been learning about that in school before the Seal snatched him up. Weren’t people supposed to get a trial before they were executed? At least that was how it worked in America but he couldn’t be sure that was how it worked anywhere else. It didn’t seem to work that way in fairytale land even, but Henry had a feeling that had to do more with magic than anything else.
“Were you safe in England?” He hoped so. Henry liked Marguerite and he would prefer it if she and her husband were tucked away safely where none of the bad stuff she was telling him about would be able to touch them.